I fill the voids.

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Month: December 2017

The sun hasn’t come up yet but our protagonist is not in a hurry. This year has been long; that night, not. We have relearnt patience to merit its necessity, not its virtue, polished a skill to overcome. What’s your new year resolution?

Zwei.

This kind of life is a gamble. You win some, you lose some. None of the outcomes matter; all the specifics do. The future doesn’t exist, and our protagonist has seized days like there is no tomorrow. Everything is beautiful, even when it hurts. Only “nothing” is bad.

Drei.

It’s 5 am. The sun hasn’t come up yet but who’s asking? There’s heat in her chest that she can’t quite get over it’s embarrassing. Doctor had said something opaque about the type of anger that wears masks; could be anything, anyone, anywhere. We promise to dig through to understand and unravel. But it’s 5 am, and it’s calm as breeze.

Vier.

You’ve listened to that one song 13 times on a row you dislike it now. You don’t leave your bed for much but you’d leave it for them. And our protagonist can assign stories to people and sing their beauty to the stars. Each and everyone. How can they all be so lovely? You’re high on a chocolate cake and existence is endearing in its dreadfulness. You want to do nothing and you want to do them. You listen to that one person 13 times on a row, the sun is almost up, and you don’t dislike them yet.

Fünf.

There’s a count up to 10 and we’re not sure where it leads to. He holds, he release; you need it over but you need it to last. People obsess over destinations but they terrify you. What is there when you’re there? You never want to stop wanting.

Sechs.

Our protagonist’s response to stimuli is often severely hindered by demons of monotony. We sit down and we think of an augmentation, surgical intervention, aggressive intrusive hands to unfold the mystery and reattach the wires. It’s only fun because it pleases you to be so strangely dysfunctional. You pay them to probe you for the truth. You can’t help but lie.

Sieben.

Some moments, some on the rocky shores of the sea, some in dimmly (or otherwise brightly) lit bedrooms, some in the balkony when the sun is finally out. Some moments are worth remembering, and you ink them on paper and cross fingers over your heart and think, “It’s okay to die. It’s okay. I have lived.”

Acht.

This year has been long; that night, not. And they both pass. Numbers on a calendar, astronomical events that repeat themselves time and time again. It’s nothing special and yet it’s all you have. Immersion, indulgence, distraction. You miss everything. You miss everyone. Today, It’s enough through and through. And though tomorrow it might not be, you’ve seized the days one time too many, tomorrow is a metaphysical afterthought, and it fades into temporary oblivion.

Neun.

Our protagonist loves to wrap herself entirely around a human body until at least one personal, intimate detail seeps into her skin and stays. And Nature has seen numerous entanglements of various anatomies since organisms knew how to separate and then reconnect again, must have listened to that same song 13 times on a row it dislikes it now. But we think, we don’t know but we could bet money on it, that, sometimes, something so fascinatingly original passes between skins, and Nature is slightly amused.

Zehn.

It’s noon. The sun is all there is. Our protagonist traces parts of herself that still light up because someone beautiful has touched them. She pays farewell to people and she pays farewell to years. That last one has been long; that last night, not. And in a few days, on a particular midnight that has no astronomical right to feel special, we restart a count up to 10. We’re not sure where it leads to. But, for better or for worse, and through temporary oblivions, we are thankful.